


The Doll With the Bleeding Heart

by TEC



Category: Original Work
Genre: Any Mistakes are on Author, Edited, Finished, Gen, Improved Work, Short Story, Wholesome, literary fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TEC/pseuds/TEC
Summary: "He was muffled by the fabric of Dio’s shirt, but the pain in his ragged voice would always be heard. It would always be heard, because it would always be there."Dio is a well-off and educated man, but he is easily frightened and has always depended on his friend. Now, after tragedy strikes, he must be the protector and get to his former mentor before the cold gets him too.In this short story, the reader will see just how strong friendship is, and how a doll can mean the world.
Relationships: Friendship - Relationship





	The Doll With the Bleeding Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome readers, just simply stopping by to ask, how are you doing? How's Covid treating you? Is your schooling going alright? I hope everything is going as smoothly as possible for you guys.

It was a dark night that winter, as Dio walked into the gloom of the old office, with the rickety chair and the unwashed window in front of the desk. It pained him to see the room in such a state, remembering how golden light from the many, now broken, lanterns, would turn the place into a haven of books and ink. Dio knew this office almost as well as his own, spending half of his time there, watching the minutes go by on his pocket watch with the cracked face, and it frightened him how he could no longer recognize it. The desk was the same, the lamps were the same, and even the scratch and dent in the floorboard, near the cushioned chairs, hidden by the new table, from when he had dropped a whiskey glass, was there. It was all the same, but if he had been blinded, dragged, and forced into there, he would not know where he was. 

A cloud of dust had risen up with the opening of the door, and he watched the hall light make figures of the particles wisping about, imagining those figures turning to hounds and lunging for his throat. He swatted at a dust figure that wondered too close, watching as the face deformed and disappeared. _African wild dogs_ , his curious mind supplied, imagining the patches of multicolored fur in the lazy shapes, remembering hunting them by Liam's side, the memory of all but begging Liam to not shoot one of the ones that looked pregnant, Liam's proud face when the guide stopped Liam from pulling the trigger, confirming Dio's fears. The memory hurt, but a soft smiled pulled at his mouth anyway. Not a week after that incident, they saw the same mother again, only this time accompanied by three balls of fluffy, playful fur.

The image dispersed when the room sudden went completely black, the hallway light almost dying from the wind's anger, blanketing the room in ink. He felt the shadows curl against his hand, holding it like a weeping widow, as he took the first step onto the floor, creating more, smaller creatures of dust and shadow. He never liked the dark, loved Africa's bright sun, even if the heat was something to never forget. He never liked the cold and dark; he much preferred the light and its warmth. The dying candle seemed to find a sufficient source of fuel, as the hallway was suddenly bright again, beating the office's monster to the back of the room. Dio could breathe again.

“Friend?” Dio shuddered as a sudden chill overcame him. He looked at the unwashed window, the grime clinging to the glass like a lost child, and saw that it was cracked ajar. Swallowing his fear, he strode over to the window, behind the desk and the clutter, leaving the light and warmth of the hall behind, his sword and his shield. He closed the window swiftly, shutting the latch with unneeded force as he hurried. He was panting, fear gripping him as wild eyes searched every darkened corner of the room, even _under_ the desk. _Danger,_ The word crawled up his spine and settled on his tongue, the bitter taste of fear making him queasy. He started, too shocked to properly scream in fright, as the window shot open again with angry wind, howling it's anger. In its anger, it had broken the latch. Dio pulled in a startled breath, before giving a shout as he forced the window closed once again, this time using something that vaguely felt like metal, with a decent weight, to bar the window closed.

The image of dusty dogs was becoming more vivid as the wind made one last fight, and screamed its last. The scream brought the filth to life, and it became a huge, stomping elephant, the light from the hall giving its eyes a fearful glow. It looked to be heading right towards the statue that was now Dio, its footfalls completely silent as it charged. But, then the elephant fell, and jackals took the giant’s place, rushing from one side of the room to the other with great speed, and Dio almost heard the yipping and barking from the wild canines. The wind's children happily encouraged and crazed the canines further, the beasts swirling around the room, and around _him_ , so fast, that they were only blurs of ears and tail. The canines soon fell as well, and hundreds of little mice skipped and squeaked along the ground, invading every nook and cranny they could find, then squeezing through the cracks of places that even true mice could not fit in. Any dust mice that were unfortunate enough to run near Dio were quickly killed, stomped to nothing but dead skin and dirt by a panicked heel.

Dio thought back to what a certain woman had said about the wind, how it was a force not to be abused and neglected. Ignored. It was the reason why she always insisted on keeping the doors and windows wide open, even during thunderous storms and icy winters. The wind would not betray her and bring her death, as she gave the wind no reason to pursue her, and while Dio always scuffed, he could not explain how it was warmest there in winter, and drier than his sealed-tight house during the rainy summers. He turned his back to the hallway door, flinching at the rattling window as the wind demanded entry, demanded to grieve. He looked down to what he used to block it with and found his friend's journal. Huge in size, the corners and spine of it lined with metal. Every page was filled, from front to back, the first paged filled with tiny scribbles of a man excited by his new toy.

He screamed when a hand latched onto his shoulder, squeezing just enough to hurt. That bitter taste was back, full force, it pulled in his mouth and hurt his chipped tooth. Once again, he was too scared to scream, the only sound being an odd wheezing noise, but the fear gave way to something else, and it's name was habit. Old habits took over and he grabbed the arm, pulling it down and using it to turn the shadow around too fast for the eye to comprehend, using the other to wrap around its throat. He cut its oxygen off fast, applying pressure until he felt the struggle leave their body, going limp.

He eased off just before the shadows of the room could fully fill their eyes, watching with predatory fascination as the shadow, now transformed into a man, collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. “I see...you haven’t lost your _touch_ , since the war old friend.” The hunched figure before Dio gasped, shuddering as oxygen went back up to his brain and his throat convulsed. The voice was warm, amused by the turn of events. 

“Liam!” Dio lunged to his friend, all sense of a predator gone, swiping away dust from his coat and hair, “My goodness, I am so sorry!” He kept apologizing as started to rub away the redness from his friend’s neck, ignoring the hiss from the man below him. 

The man, now Liam, pushed him away as he got up, coughing and kneading his throat the whole way. “Quiet, you idiot,” he rasped, “Not dead yet, am I?” He chuckled roughly, the pressure on his throat not the only thing adding the dark note. Still, Dio made sure that Liam had an arm to hold onto as the man stood up to his full height, towering over the visitor. Dio didn't even register the height difference when he attacked the man, and he could not help the tinge of pride with the thought he incapacitated a man that head at least a full head on him.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Liam chuckled then rolled his eyes when Dio checked again to see if his coat was still ruffled, before focusing on Liam in full. _Puppy,_ popped into Liam's mind, as was usual when Dio was like this. A puppy making sure that he didn't hurt his master, overdoing it on the affection to make up for some crime invisible to the owner. 

“W-Where were you? I didn’t see you anywhere!” Dio gave the dark room another glance, seeing if there was some secret door he had missed all of these years. It was doubtful, as this had been his second home since he met Liam. He knew the secrets as well as the blatant. Hell, when a burglar came into the place one foggy spring, threatening to kill anyone that so much as sneezed, it was Dio that snuck from a hidden entry way, behind one of the shiny wooden panels, and bashed the intruder on the head with a statue. Liam would not stop teasing that his "lapdog actually has some bite to him!" for _months_.

Liam’s gaze went downward, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes, becoming a doe in the sights of a lion, a rare sight as it was usually Dio that was meek and coy, hiding behind his mentor and friend whenever trouble showed itself. Except for that time with the statue. His shoulders were hunched and his head was completely lowered. He shuffled his feet and made himself as small as possible. And, despite his stature, he looked smaller than Dio at that moment. A kicked dog out in the rain, no place to call home.

Dio grabbed onto his shoulders, not holding as tight as Liam had him, and shook him gently. Liam did not even make a sound, the only reaction he had was turning his head to the side, even further away from his friend’s sight. Dio would not have it and jolted him again, with more force, but still gentle in his grip. Still, Liam refused. _Stubborn bastard,_ Dio was unsurprised though. Too prideful to not help, but too prideful to be helped.

Dio scuffed a bit, but let go of Liam’s shoulders anyway, giving a supportive squeeze despite his annoyance. He would not give anything away. Not where he had been, and certainly not where he was hiding from the hall light. His shameful reaction was a big enough clue though, and Dio worked out quickly where his friend was living, until he had arrived, though as he walked towards it, he only hoped for one thing. He hoped he was wrong.

He opened the small closest, rarely used, and coughed as a storm of dust went up with the man-made wind. It did not have near as much of a bite as what he previously fought against, but it gave a good show. He wondered how a human could live in the Sahara, because the dust in his lungs and mouth were suffocating him, coating his mouth and throat in a thick, sticky mixture of saliva, hair, dead skin, and dirt, now mud. Grimacing, Dio studied the small space, saddened by the sight. There was a blanket in there, holes lounging about and threads dancing on the edges, and a flask of what was not water, the smell too bitter. There was also a small doll, a pretty little girl's doll one would get during the winter for comfort.

This doll looked like nothing special, just a plain, fabric face, with stitched features. It had a purple dress, with a green bow at the waist, and the dress had a small hood that would go over the doll when the child was in the rain. The boots were black and shiny, two cute, round shapes that protected the dolls small feet. It looked like nothing at first glance, but if you had a quick mind attached to a pair of sharp eyes, you would notice a few things:

The doll was made of a stainless white fabric, and was as soft as a dove’s down feathers. Warm as down feathers too. The dress was not a washed-out purple, nor the bow was a sun-bleached green, they were as vibrant as a roman senator’s toga, and the quality would not be washed out for years to come. It hadn’t been washed out, despite its years. 

The hood was beautifully attached, the seams being barely there, if at all, and the fabric was lovingly picked out for the doll’s comfort. It was a more vibrant purple than the dress, making the lavender in the garden wilt with jealousy. It was the most beautiful doll he had ever seen, and what had caught Liam's eye all those years ago.

The stitched features were so clean and precise, you would never believe that it was hand-stitched, even if you knew the woman’s hand was far more practiced than any sewing machine could ever be. The woman’s hand knew stitches to make a piece fall apart in only a week, for people it did not like. Though, the piece would look so beautiful and seamless in its week of life, that the gift-bearer would never know what went wrong. It knew how to make stitches that would keep a ship’s flag at its greatest through storms that would move on to rip the shingles from rooftops and foundations from the earth. 

The woman’s hand was an incredible thing, but the heart and mind that controlled it was even more wondrous. It was sharper than either Dio or Liam, sweeter than the honey that the two men tasted on their hunting trip, more free than any person they knew. She cared so little for people's opinions, because she had the wind and the servants as wonderful friends. Even the unforgiving ocean loved her, so much so that sailors would commonly go up to the house and request that she accompany them, because the ocean would never hurt it's friend. Liam always laughed himself hoarse, while she would simply swat at him, and, of course, agreeing.

Dio looked at the meek closest, the lamp broken years ago and never cared enough by someone to have it replaced, and breathed a shaky breath. He blinked, his eyes dry though he thought they would be wet, and looked to his friend. He startled when he saw that Liam had moved from his standing, doe-esque pose near the desk, to a sulking dog right next to him. How long had Liam been there? How long had Dio been standing there, looking at a doll in a neglected closest?

Dio cleared his throat, gaining Liam’s gaze, and jerked his head to where the desk was sitting. They both turned away, seams of floorboards catching dragging feet. It took longer than it ever had to get to their seats, and when they did, Dio’s spewed dust and dirt all over his pants and shoes, turning them several shades lighter than before.

Liam’s lips twitched as his friend coughed and heaved, sweeping and wiping at all the particles of dead skin and broken memories. When Dio was comfortable in his uncomfortable and dirty chair, Liam heaved a sigh. He rubbed at his crusty and red eyes, the light seeping through the hideous pink curtains and inch-thick muck too much for a man worshipping Father Moon.

Dio shifted, the filth covering his leather shoes making his eye twitch. Yet, he stamped it down and reached for his friend’s hand. He remembered how comfortable his mother’s hand was, rough from work and soft from care. He imagined how his mother grabbed him when he was a boy, how her hand would tighten and make his knuckles rub together when a horse raced past, or an undesirable character would saunter by. He held his friend’s hand the same way, the same white-knuckle grip that would hurt his friend, though Liam had no reaction for the pain. And, if you had asked him, Dio would tell you that that day was when he was made to believe that you could die from a broken heart.

Liam’s eyes could hold the world’s sea animals with how deep with pain and wet with sorrow they were, and he held on just as tightly as Dio. He could have been remembering how his own mother held his hand, if he had one. In her stead, he was imagining the hold of an incredible woman. That hold, the strength in the knuckles, the warmth of the palm, and the softness of the fingertips, was what made him fall for her, he always told Dio. How perfect her hand fit in his, and how she smiled and squeezed back, was what did him in and gave him his greatest weakness. The callous she had from working on these dolls would be what he would trace and feel, the value of hard work never wasted on him. And, she would do the same, tracing harsh callous from hunting and grabbing the thick ropes of ships, the value of hard work never lost on her.

Now, it was only Dio that was holding on, and the desperate concern and love from a lifelong friend was what broke the dam’s cracked mold and released all the world’s oceans, and Dio raced to behind the desk and held onto Liam as he sobbed and screamed. He could hardly hold onto the shaking body, and with his own shudders and breaths, it was impossible to do anything but _hold._ Hold and comfort and kiss the head of his grieving friend, whose heart was now drained of love and happiness.

Liam was overcome by his grief enough, that the violent shakes made him fall out of his broken desk chair, and Dio loyally went down with him, still keeping him away from Death’s reaching hand.

He was nothing but a mutt, imperfect, aggressive, and overprotective. But, mutts also loved their masters more than pedigrees, because the master chose them, someone imperfect and ugly, over another who was posh and pristine. Took the dog that had no manners and no etiquette from the street, gave them a shiny, perfect collar, and told all their friends how intelligent and loyal a friend the mutt was.

And, like the mutt, he never left his companion’s side. He rocked his friend, even when his back screamed in discomfort and his legs fell asleep. He made sure neither his nor Liam’s hair blocked the nose or mouth, and kept his handkerchief in his hand to wipe away the tears and snot in his friend’s hysteria. He waited until Mother Sun said goodbye to her children and made way for their father to take watch. He still held him, his back and legs in agony, and his shirt ruined with liquids, not caring about the priceless fabric that he owed to his friend.

“Shh...Shh,” he shushed, holding his friend’s head, like he had been doing since late afternoon. Now, it is early morning, and he could see the pitch sky turn to a deep purple that the senators of the past would kill for. Still, his friend was crying, except now it was just hiccuping sobs that could barely be heard unless you were right there. Right there like he would forever be.

“I can’t move.” He was muffled by the fabric of Dio’s shirt, but the pain in his ragged voice would always be heard. It would always be heard, because it would always be there.

“You do not have to,” Dio whispered, rubbing his friend’s head, begging whatever higher power to let his friend rest. It was not fair that ice would be what killed her. What did she do to get winter's wrath? Were wind and ocean not friends with ice? Why did it take her? He looked to the closest, now shifted into a black pit, holding a blanket covered in tear and spit stains from days of crying into it, and an empty, foul-smelling flask, drained of its forgetful, yet deadly, elixir. The black shape was grasping a beautiful doll that would be passed down for centuries, because it was made to outlive its creator, by its creator.

And in the hood, two wedding rings.

_To my love, Liam,_

_And to my heart, Layla._

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end! If you read the Author's Notes, just know that I appreciate it greatly! If you want to leave any criticism, I would very much appreciate it. Don't worry about making it sound nice, I can take it! If you like this story, please share it with friends. If you like this story, check out my newest one, Jeiden! A story about the bond between pet and owner.
> 
> If you want to follow my Twitter for updates on my novella, and uploads of other small stories, here it is: https://twitter.com/WorldsSmallest2
> 
> Happy writing!


End file.
